Page 140 - 1970

136
MERRY CHRISTMAS UNCLE BEN
This story was related to me in the kitchen of the farmhouse of Mr. and Mrs. Bruce Black, twins Bernice and Barry, and Uncle Ben. The latter is Bruce's uncle, fifty-one years of age, and retarded with an I.Q. of fifty. In the 30's to SO's he was the "hired help"- coiling hay, stooking grain, taking cows to and from pasture in summer and in winter he would painstakingly have just the right number of hay bales (28) down to feed the cattle - because this was as far as he could count. Another job Uncle Ben did well was keeping his over-the-garage apartment spic and span. Contrary to his re- tarded ways, he seemed to have a thing about cleanliness. He had these few responsi- bilities, and thanks to devoted parents' training, he took pride in doing them well.
Then came the Workmen's Compensation Act stating that, without it, farmers couldn't have hired help. Bruce, still paying off the mortgage, just couldn't afford
it. Time had deteriorated Uncle Ben's co-ordination, and he was no longer allowed in the barn for fear of an accident. He became listless and dejected.
Luckily, be got a job as helper to a man in town at 50¢ an hour. How wonder-
ful life was- something useful to do, a kind boss he worshipped, and money, too. Then the minimum wage was introduced. Now who is going to pay $1.50 hourly to one who can only dust the office, run errands, and count to 28. So Uncle Ben was quietly retired.
Tomorrow, Uncle Ben, like a useless train, will be shunted off to the Ontario Hospital at Oreo. Progress priced him out of the labour market. Progress removed his dignity.
He will trade his sunny yellow room with the orange burlap drapes for a large, dingy room with deeply cracked walls painted two shades of dirty green and dented by thrown objects. Privacy will give way to peering, suspicious eyes. The sounds of mooing cattle, squealing pigs, and barking dog, two giggling children, and the familiar call of Bonnie's "Supper's ready, Ben" will be replaced by rattling beds and spoons, hygienic laughs and crying wailing. The smells of fresh country air, and aroma of flax soap, that Uncle Ben uses to scrub his floor will be forgotten in a room invaded by the pungent stench of kidney-troubled adults.
Don't you wish somebody would "Deck the halls- in institutions? F a-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la''?
- Gordon McEachern